8/15/2016

​I wonder what
I will do with the
night when all the
crickets have died
and the zeros come
to roost their crystalline 
holes all over the
wind stripped trees.
the crickets, who
anchor the night to
the reasonable hours 
and keep it from
spreading all over 
everything the way it
does in November, the
month when razor 
blades sharpen themselves
and the dead won't 
stop dying.
I eye the guitar in
the corner that promised
to teach me magic words
but that was April. 
time does not wait
and I am beginning
to suspect the postman
of keeping all the
love letters for himself
and the mice of turning 
the hands of the clock 
ahead just a bit.
​